Christy The Writer

Light rain drizzled over my umbrella as I stepped out of the train station. The air was chilly. The slate sky overhead promised the day would stay like this, and I was elated.

Oxford.

I had arrived in the heart of England earlier in the week, less as a tourist and more as a pilgrim. From the first time I’d picked up “The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe” as a child, I’d fallen in love with C.S. Lewis. I always felt a bit cheated that Lewis, whom I boldly called “Jack” as his contemporaries had, died six years before I was born and robbed me of the chance to ever meet him. I’m not sure how great my chances would have been had our life spans overlapped, but I always pictured myself sitting quietly at his feet in his room at Oxford while he read to me from whatever book he was writing at the moment, his hand resting paternally on my hair.

Jack was all I aspire to be – a university professor, a writer, a lecturer. He was devoted to his students and they to him. I always said if I could become half the professor Jack was, even a quarter, I’d consider myself a success.

Physically he is gone, but in the ways that matter most, intellectually, spiritually, emotionally, creatively, he will never die. And here, in the part of England where he lived and taught, I was determined to find him.

I buttoned my jacket against the October chill and walked out onto the streets of Oxford. Even there, in the busy middle of the city, I could see the history spread out around me, rain-washed and breathtaking.

I couldn’t feel Jack here. Not yet, although the promise was there, that tiny little shiver of anticipation like what I felt as a child when someone told me Christmas was right around the corner.

Oxford.

I was finally here. I was getting close.

I knew there are guided walking tours of Oxford, and open-topped bus tours that promise to show visitors all the sights of this city that dates back to the 8th century. Under different circumstances I would have been happy to be a part of those smiling groups of tourists, all sensible walking shoes, weatherproof jackets and digital cameras. But I was here for one reason and one reason only. I needed to find Jack.

I began to walk, not knowing where I was going but sure that I’d recognize it when I got there. I was unable to keep from smiling as it sank in that I was walking the streets where Jack had walked, alongside his close friend J.R.R. Tolkien, probably smoking their pipes and talking about books or religion. Maybe even joking about the tourists. Tourists. Ha. Not me. I was a pilgrim, as I’d already established.

I wandered up and down the wet streets of Oxford, reveling in the way the buildings look almost layered, one in front of the other, different styles, different architecture, different sizes and levels, yet nestling together with a sameness that gave the whole city a look of continuity, of fluidity.

I saw an enormous, domed cathedral ahead and my heart began to pound. I’d found Christ Church, the largest college of the University of Oxford. I’d finally stumbled upon the university, where Jack had taught, where he’d sat with his students, patiently discussing life and literature. He was closer than ever.

I paid six pounds to enter the grounds of Christ Church. I would have paid a hundred. I walked through an archway, around a corner and through another doorway until I stepped out into a vast, green courtyard that took my breath away. This was what I always pictured when I thought of Oxford, this sprawling lawn known as the Tom Quadrangle, with the famous Tom tower, a Christopher Wren creation, looming over everything. The cathedral bells began to ring and I felt my eyes fill as the beauty of it all washed over me.

I walked through the cathedral and around more of the grounds before I decided it was time to move on. Jack had taught at Oxford, but not at this college. He was closer, but I still hadn’t found him.

I considered trying to find Magdalen College, where Jack had been a fellow, but suddenly I knew where I needed to go next. Of course, I had no idea how to get there and I was going to be out of daylight before much longer, so I asked someone how to get to the Eagle and Child, the pub Jack, Tolkien and their friends, a group that called itself the Inklings, had visited every week and talked over pints of ale.

Directions in hand, I set off down a cobbled street where buildings from the 15th century stand in stark contrast to the Starbucks on the corner. I had just passed under the sheltering overhang of an enormous old tree when a sound like a small bark escaped me and I stopped in my tracks. The pub was ahead of me, the blue sign I’d seen so many times in my Lewis studies dangling tantalizingly over the sidewalk.

I went in, my eyes taking a moment to adjust to the dark and tiny interior. Although it has much of the dark wood I’ve come to associate with English pubs, this one is almost cavernous, with rooms so small I had a hard time envisioning any one of them full of men, tables, chairs and beer.

The room straight ahead of the front door has a wall with a picture of Lewis and a plaque printed with the story of the Inklings’ weekly visits.

Jack.

I took a table in the back, ordered a pint of locally brewed ale and, on a whim, a steak and mushroom pie. I sat alone at my table, my eyes half closed as I felt around for Jack. I could definitely feel him here, his spirit laughing with his friends as they talked and joked and probably argued. I looked at the painted brick walls and dark beams, knowing I was seeing the same things Jack had seen.

So why did he still feel just out of reach? It felt like my fingertips were brushing against the tweed of his coat but couldn’t quite get a grip.

As I was leaving, I stopped in the front room again. A group of men were sitting at one of the two tables in the tiny room.

“Will it disturb you if I take a picture?” I asked, gesturing toward the wall.

“Oh yeah, terribly,” one of them said with a grin. I smiled back and took the picture. They all looked at the wall then.

“C.S. Lewis?” one of them said.

“Yeah, local bloke,” his friend answered. “Wrote a couple of books. Not very good, though.”

I whipped around, ready to pounce, when I noticed he was twinkling at me. He winked and I smiled. The men laughed over their pints before resuming their conversation. For a fleeting moment I could feel Jack again.

As I stepped back onto the sidewalk, I realized where I needed to go to find Jack. I asked a woman on the street how to get to Headington, the part of Oxford where Jack had lived, attended Holy Trinity Church, and was buried. She advised me to take a bus. Although I love to walk, the impending darkness made me agree with her.

The bus rumbled down the cobblestone streets, through the city and into the outskirts. I got off when I saw a sign for Headington and when the bus pulled away, I looked around. With the misplaced confidence that had plagued me since I first arrived in England – and actually pretty much everywhere else I go – I expected to see a big, blinking sign that said, “This way! Off you go, then!”

But Headington is largely residential. I could see no big churches, and no signs for Headington Quarry, where I know Holy Trinity is located. I walked up the street a little further, past a beautiful park. The rain had stopped and a fall breeze whipped the falling leaves around my legs. I took a deep breath and smiled. This was Jack’s Oxford. Now if I could just get to the church, to his grave, I knew I’d find him.

After half an hour, I finally stopped a passing woman to ask her how to get to the quarry.

“Oh my,” she said. “That’s a pretty good distance from here. The bus doesn’t even run that far.”

That took care of my next question, so instead I said, half to her, half to myself, that I could always grab a taxi.

“You might,” she said cheerfully. “If you can find one. Good luck!”

I kept walking, looking over my shoulder now and then to see if any of the approaching cars might be a taxi. They weren’t.

The traffic grew steadily thinner, and after another half hour, I found myself at the edge of town. There was no one around and by now it was completely dark. My desire to pay my respects at Jack’s grave were arguing mightly with the knowledge that I was a woman, alone in a strange town, in the dark, with a fair amount of ale in me. This probably wasn’t my best idea.

I went back to the center of Headington and got back on a bus for Oxford City Centre. I was bitterly disappointed at not finding Jack. The fleeting glimpses I’d had were nice, but it wasn’t what I’d hoped for. I wanted to really find Jack, to feel myself surrounded by him, to feel him smiling down on me.

I got off the bus and started walking with leaden feet toward the train that would take me back to my hotel, an hour away. I paused at an unfamiliar corner, unsure of which way to go. I glanced both ways and something nudged me toward the left.

Halfway down the block I saw a young girl sitting in the doorway of a store that had long since closed for the night. She was wearing a winter coat, the ragged fur of the hood framing her thin, pale face. She smiled at me as I passed but until she rather hesitantly held out her hand, I hadn’t realized she was begging.

With all the time I spend in New York City and Philadephia, I’m accustomed to panhandlers, and I often give them money, much to the consternation of my friends. I dug in my bag and handed this girl a few coins. Her eyes lit up and she clapped. There was something so Eliza Doolittle about her that I smiled.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe how many people just pretend they don’t even see me.”

“Really?” Before I realized what I was doing, I sat down on the pavement beside her.

“Yeah.” She said. “A woman who went by here a few minutes ago saw me and put her cell phone up to her ear, pretending to talk to someone. Then it rang.” She laughed. I laughed too.

“Busted,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“I’m Christy.”

“Lottie,” she said, extending her hand.

“What are you doing here?” I asked her. The question came out of my mouth before I could stop it. It was none of my business at all, but the girl didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m homeless,” she said simply. “I come out here as often as I need to so I can collect enough money to buy a bed for the night.”

“Buy a bed?” My comfortable, middle-class life was getting in the way of my understanding what she was talking about.

“A bed,” she said. “At the hostel down the street. There are shelters here that have beds for free, but they have age limits.”

“Age limits?”

If she was beginning to think I wasn’t terribly bright, she hid it well.

“Yeah, most of them are for young kids, like teenagers, or you have to be over 25.”
I shuddered when I realized that meant this homeless girl must only be about…

“I’m 22,” she said, reading my mind.

“Wow,” is all I could think of to say. “How long have you been … out here?”

“I’ve been homeless since I was 13,” she said. “My parents split up when I was 11 and my mum moved away. I lived with my dad, but he was gone all the time. The authorities said I was too young to be alone and they wanted to put me in foster care. So I ran away. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“Do you still talk to your family?”

“I talk to my brothers and sisters, but not my parents. I don’t even know where they are.”

A man in jeans and a black t-shirt saw her and stopped.

“Lottie, what are you doing here? Are you crazy?”

“I have to get a bed tonight, Ben,” she answered. “I can’t sleep out. It’s too cold and wet.”

“You can’t get busted again,” he said. “Get what you need for tonight and move on. I don’t want to see you out here again.”

He walked on and Lottie shook her head.

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Ben. He keeps an eye on me.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

She considered that for a moment.

“Not really, but I guess yeah, in a way. He gave me money once and now when he sees me he stops to chat.”

“What did he mean about not getting busted?”

“I keep getting thrown in jail for begging,” she said. The matter-of-fact way she was telling me these things gave me the chills. “They pick me up, they put me in jail for awhile, then toss me out again.”

I didn’t know what to say, so for once I didn’t say anything. She kept talking.

“It’s a bad thing for the junkies,” she said. “They’re out here, begging for money to buy drugs, and the cops throw them in jail where they get drugs from other junkies for free. How is that helping them? At least I’m not a junkie. For me, jail does give me a place to sleep for a few nights. It’s not so bad sleeping outside in the summer, but fall and winter are brutal.”

She glanced up and down the street. The movement made her hood slide partway back from her head. Her hair was very blonde, pulled back from her face in a messy ponytail. In the light from the streetlamp her skin looked almost translucent, and her eyes were a very light blue. Satisfied there were no cops in sight, she turned back to me.

“I can’t go to jail tonight,” she explained. “I start school in the morning.”

“School?”

“College!” She beamed at me. “There’s a church here that helps me out now and then, and I’ve gotten to know them. They’re paying for me to go to school.”

“That’s terrific,” I said. “What do you want to do, ultimately?”

“I’m not really sure, but I do know I want to work with kids. That’s why the church is paying for my college. They said I’ll be perfect to help other kids in trouble, since I’ve been there.”

She shook her head and smiled to herself.

“College,” she said happily. “I can’t wait.”

Out of nowhere, a Jack Lewis quote I’d read once popped into my head.

“Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn.”

He was here. He was sitting on the sidewalk with Lottie and me. I could feel him, my fingers finally closing on tweed. He was here. And he was smiling.

“Lottie,” I said. “I went back to school myself as an adult. I just graduated this spring. I know how hard it is, and I want you to know I think you’re brave and strong and wonderful. I’m going to give you this, and I want you to take it, okay?”

I put some money in her hand. Not a lot, but what I now knew was enough to get her a bed for the night. She looked down at the money and back up at me with tears in her eyes.

“Blimey,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Go to college tomorrow,” I said. “Learn everything you can. You’re going to make a difference, I know it.”

I got up, stiff from sitting on the cold pavement for so long. She stood up too, and after a moment’s hesitation, hugged me. Hard.

I turned and walked on toward the train station, my heart singing.

I’d found Jack.